On Any Other Night
by TheQuiltedFox
Summary: It's not sparkly, it's not glamorous, it's just Stan and Peggy being Stan and Peggy; two people who understand each other far too well... and it just happens to be Christmas Eve. An extended and edited version of chapter 3 from my longer fic, 'Receivers'. Stan/Peggy


**Author's note: **

**This is an extended and edited version of chapter 3 from my longer fic, _Receivers_. There are quite a few new bits here and there, and I've steered it towards Stan and Peggy's interesting to and fro/unresolved tension...**

**Anyway, I thought we could all do with a little more Mad Men for Christmas!**

* * *

**On Any Other Night**

**\- Tuesday, December 24, 1968 -**

What was she going to do if she couldn't go back into the office until Friday? Taking a break for the holidays hadn't been in Peggy's nature for a long time now.

She'd made the trip in yesterday even though it wasn't necessary. It was simply somewhere to be.

There was the odd person around; a few secretaries getting the last of their admin out of the way, and some of the older men for who the novelty of spending time off at home with their wives and children had long since worn off. Roger was there— keeping to the upstairs offices.

Honestly, there wasn't much for her to do. The figures for Christmas wouldn't be in for a while. All she could do was grab a few files from her desk and hope to get some new ideas.

The effort would be wasted on Avery.

* * *

Back in her apartment, she dreads a call from her mother. She dreads a call from Ted. She devotes the rest of the day to rereading and making notes on the research, telling herself all the while that it's the best way to spend her time.

* * *

At a quarter to nine, the phone rings.

Peggy tosses the research files onto the coffee table and lunges across her couch for the phone. She stays in that awkward position, just in case it's _him_ again, and she needs to hang up quickly.

'Hello?'

There's no response.

'_Hello?_' She sighs, 'Listen, Te— '

A low chuckle cuts her off. 'Now I know you don't have plans for Christmas Eve.'

'Stan... '

'Who else would you expect?' Then, very quickly, he adds— 'Shit. Peg, sorry, I didn't mean... '

'It's fine,' she says dismissively.

'It's not.'

There's a silence between them. Peggy stands and tucks the receiver between her ear and shoulder. In one free hand she scoops up the handset and walks over to the kitchen. She grabs the bottle of scotch she opened yesterday, and manages to pick up a tall glass tumbler too. It's not the ideal glass, but it'll do.

'You call me up just for that?' There's no malice in her voice, she knows there's rarely any reason to their late-night calls.

'No...' He draws the word out in a way that leads Peggy to suspect that maybe it was one of the reasons. Of course he'd want to know what was happening with Ted. 'I thought I'd spread some holiday cheer,' he says.

'Urgh,' Peggy sits down on the rug by her couch, resting her back against the armrest. She sets down the phone, bottle, and glass; nesting in her little spot by the heater.

'Lighten up, _Ebenezer_.' Stan snickers at his own joke.

'Shut up,' she replies sharply. He might push her, but she'll always push back.

She pours herself a drink, maybe a rather generous drop. She hears Stan take her cue and there's a clink of ice cubes falling into glass, then the pour of something wet. Sounds like another generous serving. Peggy looks towards her fridge. Ice? No, it should be okay. It's still cold in her front room despite the layers of clothing and the heater only a couple metres away.

Ice or no ice, it tastes good as it hits the back of her throat.

She just listens to him moving about in his own apartment; there's the sound of a chair being pulled back, legs scraping against hardwood floors; the flick of a lamp switch; then a familiar sigh as he rifles through drawing paper and then amongst a jar of markers and materials.

'What are you working on?'

Stan clears his throat as he settles in, 'It's just a sketch.'

Peggy finishes her drink, and without a beat, pours another. 'Let me guess... A nude — some poor girl's draped over your couch.'

'You know me too well,' his voice is smooth and low.

'You should hang up — concentrate on finishing it.' Peggy hears how her voice goes up at the end of her sentence. It's a question, a challenge that she hopes he doesn't accept.

'The drawing or the girl?' he gives a short chuckle.

The thought of him there with someone triggers the uncomfortable feeling she's used to pushing away. Those few times she can't, and instead lets the thought play out in her head, she puts down to too many drinks...

'I should probably — '

'It's the view from my window.'

'Huh? What is?'

'The sketch. It's a cityscape. No girl,' he sighs, '_Unfortunately_.'

'Oh.' Peggy allows herself a little smile.

'No need to sound so pleased, Chief. This winter's been a dry one.' Another long sigh, which turns into a yawn at the end, and then another laugh.

'I'm sure you'll survive.' She can picture him smirking at the end of the line.

'I need a top up,' he announces.

Peggy looks down at her own glass; she's let her wrist relax and it's almost horizontal. She lays a hand flat against the rug... no damp spots... she must have drunk it all. When had that happened?

'Me too,' she replies.

'Right, rendezvous in two — don't hang up.'

'_I won't_.'

She wanders over to the kitchen counter. The bottle of scotch is still over by the couch, but she's got a taste for something different. Wine. Yes, that'll do. She pours it into her tall tumbler without any spills or splashes, which is a small victory in itself.

'What'd you get?'

'Red,' she hiccoughs, 'it looks like cranberry juice.'

'I'm cutting you off after this one.'

She laughs, 'You can't. _You're not here_.'

There's silence from the other end, then she just hears Stan's low hum. Something about the sound makes her cheeks flush. _But what if he was?_

'What have you got?' She asks eventually, breaking the moment.

'Something brown and expensive. Well, expensive for me,' he laughs.

'You should've saved it for a special occasion.'

'I did.'

'What? When?'

'This.'

His tone does nothing to stop that blush from creeping down her neck.

* * *

'How's the drawing going?' she takes a sip of her drink. She'd switched back to scotch an hour ago. The bottle's at her her feet, next to a box of crackers that'll serve as her dinner.

'Done. I'm on to something else,' he pauses, 'Jeez, it's _terrible_.'

'What's it of?'

'My empty glass.' They both laugh, and it takes a long time to settle again.

Peggy's noticed how slow and low they've both started talking. Apart from the odd trip to their kitchen or lounge (or wherever the drinks are), they've both been sitting down for hours. The effect of all the liquor's sunk down through their limbs, making them heavy, tired... loose lipped.

They can go an easy five minutes without either saying a word. It's comfortable. It's good.

Stan laughs, and it shakes Peggy from the sleep she wasn't aware she was even falling into.

'What! What?' She hears the ruffling and shuffling of drawing paper and pens from his end of the line.

Stan clears his throat, 'Merry Christmas, Chief.'

'Shit. Really?'

'Well isn't that nice.'

'Sorry... sorry. Merry Christmas. _Really?_' She sits up straight and twists around to try and get a view of her clock.

'Over an hour ago,' He sighs and she hears him settle onto his couch or bed — something soft, anyway. 'I take it someone didn't get a visit from Santa then... '

'Sound's like someone else didn't either,' she snipes back.

'There's nothing I want.'

Peggy moves to recline on her couch, laying on her back and tucking the phone neatly between her head and shoulder. 'Not even a beautiful woman to draw?'

'Now _there's_ an idea.' He chuckles, 'there'd be some issue getting her down the chimney though.'

'You don't _have_ a chimney.'

There's a pause, then a distant laugh, like Stan's moved away from the receiver. He comes back, 'No, I don't. How did I not remember that?'

'Ask that empty glass you can't draw.' Peggy gaze drifts to follow the outlines of the shadows cast on her ceiling by the sole light of the lamp in the room's corner.

'_Don't be cruel_,' he says. Oh god, there's that voice, that growl. 'What did you ask for?' he continues, 'what did you want to see under your tree. I bet you have a tree. I bet it's all dressed up too.'

Peggy looks at the tree. It's pathetic, but it's there. There's even a strand of tinsel wrapped around it.

'Come on, what did you ask for?'

'Nothing.' That's not true. She'd asked for something. She just didn't think she deserved him... it. Father Gill's words come back to her: _Do you think you don't deserve his love?_ Sure, they hadn't been talking of an earthy love back then, but it doesn't stop the thought from resting heavily somewhere deep in her body.

'I don't believe you. You're just trying to cover up the fact there's only lumps of coal.' He doesn't say that maliciously, and even Peggy laughs a little.

'You got me.' She doesn't say anything else for a moment, allowing herself to hear her own words two different ways...

'I do,' his words are faint but they're clear enough to send an unexpected shiver through her spine.

* * *

Alone in her apartment, phone nestled in the crook of her neck, Stan at the other end of the line, the work files long since abandoned, Peggy's got to admit to herself that she's pretty happy with how the night has unfolded — even if it _has_ brought up those uncomfortable feelings and urges she's so used to pushing away...

* * *

**Author's note: I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it! Feel free to leave feedback/comments... I really love reading them! Merry Christmas x TheQuiltedFox**


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